


In the blink of a memory

by tocourtdisaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 18:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tocourtdisaster/pseuds/tocourtdisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes to the sensation of fingers against his stomach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the blink of a memory

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my hard drive, half-finished, for over a year. I figured it was about time I finished it up and posted it. Title from "All on a Sunday" by Spock's Beard.

John wakes to the sensation of fingers against his stomach. At first, he thinks he’s hallucinating; it wouldn’t be the first time copious amounts of pain medication have made him imagine gentle hands against his wounds and he imagines, living with Sherlock, it won’t be the last time it happens, either.

Slowly, John moves his right hand from where it’s been resting at his side and slides it across his own stomach towards the imaginary hand that’s resting over the gauze that covers a good portion of his midsection. The tips of his fingers eventually run into the back of a hand and, _oh_ , maybe it’s not an hallucination after all.

He turns his head and somehow manages to drag his eyes open against the flood of narcotics trying to drag him back down into unconsciousness. The first thing he notices is the IV stand and the lines of tubing running from the bags and into his left arm. The second thing he notices is Sherlock.

The man is slumped over in a chair that looks like it’s been dragged as close to John’s bed as is possible, his head resting near John’s left hip. Sherlock’s back is rising and falling in the steady respiration of sleep, but John would bet anything that Sherlock’s not sleeping willingly, but rather gave into the demands of his body after pushing it too hard for too long.

And Sherlock’s hand, real and not an hallucination, is on John’s stomach, over the gauze and the sutures John knows are hidden beneath.

John wonders how long he was in surgery and what repairs were necessary and how long his recovery is predicted to take. He wishes he could get his hands on his chart, just to satisfy his own curiosity.

While he’s at it, he wishes Sherlock didn’t attract knife-wielding maniacs on a regular basis and that it wasn’t so obvious that the best and easiest way to get to Sherlock was through John.

But, no, he doesn’t really wish that last part because it’s only so obvious because it’s true. Sherlock is a man of many talents, but hiding his true emotions is not one of them and John would never want it to be otherwise.

John covers Sherlock’s hand with his own and feels Sherlock’s lax fingers twitch and then he’s meeting Sherlock’s eyes over their joined hands.

"'lo," John rasps out and Sherlock's other hand comes to rest over John's lips.

"Don't try to speak," Sherlock tells him, straightening his spine with a wince, but not moving either of his hands. "You shouldn't even be awake yet, considering the frankly alarming amount of narcotics you have in your system right now."

John huffs at Sherlock's skewed version of mother henning, but otherwise keeps quiet as requested. It's not hard; he's having pretty difficult time just keeping himself conscious right now.

"Dimmock managed to arrest your attacker not long after you went into surgery," Sherlock tells him, removing his hand from John's mouth. His other hand remains sandwiched between John's stomach and palm. "You're expected to make a full recovery after minimal physiotherapy."

"S'good," John mumbles. His eye slip shut without so much as asking first and he manages to drag them back open just in time to see Sherlock attempt to smile and scowl at the same time and it's almost enough to make John want to laugh.

"I thought I told you not to talk," Sherlock says, his face apparently deciding on a scowl in the end.

John smiles, probably at least a bit dopily, and tries to say, "You're not the boss of me," but his voice cracks to practically nothing halfway through.

Sherlock presses the pads of fingers against John's mouth again. "Stop. Talking," he orders, but his tone is lacking any sort of bite so John doesn't take any offense. Sherlock's clearly been worried; the least John can do is listen to him just this once.

"Thank you," Sherlock says after a long moment of silence. He removes his fingers once again and John's lips feel cold in their absence.

The corner of John's mouth twitches up into a smile and he nods his head just a little as his eyes droop shut again. He really is very tired.

He feels Sherlock's other hand, the one that so recently rested against his lips, pressed against the back of his right hand, thumb against the inside of John's wrist.

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock tells him. Their hands are a warm weight against John's stomach and he's finding it increasingly difficult to stay awake, so he doesn't even try to anymore.

The last thing he feels before he's dragged back into unconsciousness is Sherlock cradling his hand ever so gently and the feather-light press of Sherlock's lips against his palm and John falls asleep with a smile on his face.

 

**end**  


 


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